


this must be the place

by octaviuh



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baker Harry Styles, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Model Harry Styles, Mutual Pining, Photojournalist Louis Tomlinson, Quarantine, Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octaviuh/pseuds/octaviuh
Summary: “Where’s home?” Harry asks.“Everywhere.” Louis shrugs. “Nowhere.”orLouis travels for work and needs a place to stay when he's sent back to London. Harry's got a spare bedroom and hates living alone. It works.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	this must be the place

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic i've finished in years and i'm so excited!! i've been working on this on and off for nearly a year now and i have grown to love these characters so much and am so happy to be able to share them. 
> 
> i made a playlist to along with the fic, mostly music i imagine harry to be playing. it can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4bBcnMlYFxmWmhu8QB5EMv?si=_t-2b4HBQ5SHEcCkyyeHkA) if you want to check it out! 
> 
> big thanks to [hannah](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/tomlinbuns), [ella](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/ialwaysknewyouwerepunk), and [nicole](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/justmeherand-themoon) for looking this over!!

_Travel Team,_

_We have been keeping a close eye on COVID-19 and are aware of the threat it poses to international travel. To ensure everyone’s safety during this unpredictable time, we will be arranging transportation for our Travel Team to return home. Please contact your supervisors immediately following this email and arrange your flights and any other necessary means of transportation within the next 48 hours. Locations with the highest cases and/or impending travel restrictions will be treated with the most urgency. Away is not responsible for those who do not contact us for arrangements._

_Away has yet to announce a full plan as to how office work will operate in the coming months, but updates are to follow when available._

_I have attached a file explaining recommended travel procedures and tips for a safe and healthy journey home._

_Edie Stevens  
Away Magazine HR_

___

“They’re sending me back,” is the first thing Louis says to Niall when he walks out of the bathroom. He falters, looking confused and still half asleep. “Like, London.” 

Niall’s hand stills where it was ruffling his hair, his dark blonde hair is wet and clinging to his forehead and his pale skin is red from the hot shower. 

“London?” Niall repeats, eyes wide with shock. “‘Cause of the virus?” Louis nods. “That’s fucked, mate. You can’t just stay here?” Niall disappears into his room, door still open, shuffling around in search of his work clothes. 

“I mean, we knew something was going to happen, but border closures and all that. Besides, don’t think you’re looking for a house guest indefinitely.” Louis picks at the hem of his sweatshirt and hopes desperately that this conversation doesn’t take a turn for serious. Lighthearted he can handle, but the idea of leaving makes his stomach turn every which way and he thinks he may be a bit too sensitive for any heavy subject matter right now. He didn’t want Niall to ask him to stay or say he’d miss him or do any sentimental reflecting. If that ever had to happen, it surely wasn’t going to be right now. 

He hates the idea of being attached to somewhere. He has never had a problem leaving before, but that might’ve had to do with the excitement of the next destination. The idea of going back to London, _indefinitely_ , scared him more than he wanted to admit. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t like it there. He loved his internship in London but that was over two years and upwards of fifty countries ago. He’s not fresh out of uni anymore. He’s not still discouraged that fashion photography didn’t work for him. He knows how big the world is and how much there is to see, even still, and he knows that he’s doing exactly what he needs to be. 

He is a completely different person now and he’s worried that the Louis who loved living in London is no longer part of him. 

After some brief soul-searching and melancholic staring out the window this morning, he isn’t quite as scared to admit he doesn’t want to go back, that he _likes_ it here, and that London isn’t home to him anymore. He couldn’t think about home, really, because he couldn’t come up with anything. 

There’s home in Doncaster, where his family is. There’s home in London, which is the place he tells everyone he’s from, the place he’d hypothetically--turned realistically--return to if he wasn’t travelling for work. But there’s no place to live, no place that feels more safe or comfortable than any other place. Nowhere that’s his own or where he wants to be. 

“Would have to start charging you a fair share in that case,” Niall jokes over his shoulder, preventing Louis from some more melodramatic staring. Fuck, he’s going to miss him. “Where do you think you’ll stay?” 

“No clue. Don’t think I’ll meet another stranger that’s willing to offer me their couch for a few months, though.” 

“I’m a once in a lifetime kind of guy.” Niall’s grinning when he turns around, looking ridiculous in his red work polo and khaki shorts. 

“Yeah, I hear you,” Louis says, chuckling and rolling his eyes. He gets up, a little reluctantly, and heads towards the fridge. “I’ve gotta be in London, though. Think I’ll lose it if I end up sleeping on my mum’s couch.” He loves his family to death, but he means that. He can’t even think about trying to get work done with all of the kids around. 

“Finally gonna get a place of your own?” Niall eyes him as he stirs his coffee. He definitely could figure out the answer to that if he wanted to. No way in hell. Louis didn’t have the lifestyle, the job, or the finances to support anything of the sort. He’d rent a room for as long as he needed and be on his way, thank you. 

Louis scoffs. “Nice one, mate.” He grabs a cold slice of pizza and returns to the couch, tugging his laptop onto his lap and searching for flights to London. 

___ 

Louis spends his last day on the beach. He’s submitted a few assignments and booked his flight by late morning so he grabs a coffee and heads to the most secluded area he can find. It’s warm and sunny, by some miracle, and Niall and a few of their friends make plans to join him after work. 

He hasn’t got anxiety about doing things by himself anymore, but he still feels a bit weird, sitting on his towel, hunched over his phone, in the furthest corner of the beach. It’s too bright and he’s been on his phone, scrolling through every realtor app he can find. It’s too early to call anyone in London, but his chest tightens at the idea of not having anywhere to go tomorrow. He doesn’t get why it’s so different from finding a hostel or a random couch or wherever he finds on a whim while travelling, but it _is_. 

So he calls Zayn. Zayn’s in New York, he’ll be awake, he knows people. Whether or not he knows people who will take in a photojournalist/drifter in two days is another thing. He calls him anyway. 

And not only does Zayn know people, Zayn gives him a _list_ filled with pros and cons of each person. It’s meticulous and thorough and incredibly helpful. 

“So, I wanna narrow it down, I think. Just to see who I should try first. You think Ian, maybe?” Louis asks once Zayn has rattled off about fifteen people and Louis’ head is spinning. 

“Yeah, he’s good, he lived with Liam for a bit. Not sure if you’ve met him, he’s a bit awkward at first, but he’s good. You’d like him.” Louis puts a star beside his name. He’s got a bit of a tight feeling in his stomach thinking about calling these strangers--Zayn’s friends, which might make matters worse--and asking them for a place to live. He also hasn’t got a choice. 

“Okay, what about Ellie?” Louis asks. He scans her list one more time. She smokes as much as he does, she’s got a cat, she’s gay, Zayn says she probably wouldn’t mind a male roommate, especially since Louis tends to go for guys. “Mm, but she’s only got a one bedroom. I’ll keep her as a maybe, but one of the favorites.” Louis marks a dash beside her name to remember. He skims the list one more time, looking for anyone else that stood out to him. “Um, Harry?” 

“Definitely, yeah, he just moved and doesn’t really like having the space to himself. He owns the bakery under his flat, dunno if I mentioned that.” Which, no, he didn’t. Louis jots that down quickly. 

Harry’s list is kind of ideal. First and foremost, he actually wanted someone to live with. Louis doesn't need to read any further before starring his name. His list also includes friendly, really cool new flat, and now, bakery. Louis isn't sure if he really needs any more than that. 

“Thanks, man. Think I’ll start with Harry and work my way through.” Louis clicks his pen and tucks it into the spiral of his notebook. 

“Let me know what happens, yeah? And get home safe, Lou.” Zayn yawns, muffled by the speaker. “Love you.” 

“Love you, mate. Talk soon.” Louis hangs up and immediately starts typing Harry a message, hoping he would see it when he wakes up.

___

Louis’ plane lands just as the sun finishes setting. He’s far too exhausted to enjoy the view very much, but he snaps a few pictures on his phone, which is his own little tradition for flights. Just for him, for later, to remember where he was and where he’s going. 

Separating work from certain aspects of his travels was necessary when his life was essentially his job. He felt guilty taking time for himself in his travels at first. He felt like he had something to prove, but he didn’t know what it was or who he needed to impress. He didn’t belong in a nice hotel after hiking all day, passing businessmen whilst he had dirt smudged on his face. He didn’t want to eat at the city’s most popular restaurants. It was impossible to come up with intriguing work when everything felt inauthentic. He felt like a piece in some corporate puzzle but with a more interesting job description. 

He’d almost lost his job when he asked if he could do things his way, but he knew what he could do if he was given a bit more freedom. He didn’t want to quit. Freelancing was alluring, but he genuinely loved his job. Instead, he made it out with an adjusted budget to cover travel, housing, and food. Louis’ was told where to go and when his due date was and that was that. 

That’s how he ended up sleeping on random couches and rented rooms and cheap hostels. That’s why he started documenting the boring parts of his trips just for himself, to remind himself of his personal journey, not just his professional one. That’s how he’d ended up connecting with hundreds of people in dozens of countries and creating articles beyond his surface level assignments. That’s how he became one of his office’s prized photojournalists. That’s also how he ended up twenty five, no permanent address, two bags containing all of his belongings, looking around the airport car park for the stranger he’d be living with for the foreseeable future. 

It was so cold once the sun had set that he barely held in a gasp when he walked out the doors. Louis loved spring, loved March and the transition of rosy cheeks and heavy jackets to jumpers and umbrellas, but he could tell that London had not yet given up on the cold. It was dark and the familiarity Louis had with Heathrow had significantly decreased in the past few years, so he wandered a bit in the general direction before he found his way. 

When he spotted the black SUV, he felt a pang of anxiety. He couldn’t put his finger on it, either, because he was very comfortable with the idea of sleeping in a random stranger’s home. Probably way too comfortable, even. He wasn’t shy in the slightest. Maybe it was the idea that he didn’t know when he’d be back here, heading in the opposite direction, boarding a plane that was headed anywhere in the world. Maybe it was the idea that if he wasn’t moving, he was stuck. It wasn’t true, but it didn’t stop him from purposely maintaining his pace toward the car, rather than turning around and booking a ticket back to Australia or anywhere else. 

But then he spotted Harry and it took a bit less convincing than before. 

When Harry came around and greeted him, Louis had to blink a few times to take him in. He was taller by a few inches and had hair that came down past his shoulders, head covered by a white knit hat. His coat was buttoned up and grey and went to his knees, which poked out of his ripped black skinny jeans, and he looked so warm with his wide, inviting smile. 

Louis didn’t have time to stare, thank god, because Harry was hoisting his bags into the trunk and ushering him to the passengers seat. The seat warmer was on and the heat was blasting, thawing out Louis’ red cheeks from the few solid minutes of cold wind. He held his hands up against the vents before tucking them firmly under his legs. 

Harry clambered in next to him, long, slender legs not at all graceful. A gust of wind comes in with him, sending Louis into another bout of shivers. 

“Not used to the cold yet?” Harry eyes him, an amused look on his face. He takes off his hat before starting the car, ruffling his hair a bit, pushing it mostly to one side but letting it fall naturally. 

“It’s a bit colder than Australia. Not sure how I ever was used to this.” 

“‘Right, welcome back. It’s not fun,” Harry jokes. Louis catches himself laughing, for some reason. “How was your flight?” 

“Long,” Louis grumbles. That shifts his attention to the time and the warmth of the car and his exhaustion and he’s unable to hold back a yawn. 

“I picked up some groceries and stuff today, but if you need me to pick up anything else just let me know. I also got a bed since you’ll be in the office, but the bed frame isn’t finished yet. I can when we get back or--” 

“I’ve got it, it’s alright,” Louis interrupts. He really wouldn’t have cared if he was sleeping on a couch or the floor. A bed and a private room is more than he’s had in months and he’s anticipating things he hadn’t realized he’d missed. He can roll over without being up against the back cushions, he’s much less likely to fall off, he can _spread out_ , and it’s probably soft. It’s the little things. 

“Thanks again, for letting me stay, especially on such short notice. I didn’t realize that it was, like, your office, Zayn made it sound like you were looking for a roommate.” 

“No, no,” Harry’s eyes go wide, like he’s shocked that Louis would think that. “It’s really not a problem. I wasn’t like, actively looking, but I definitely mentioned before that if anyone needed somewhere to stay….” Harry waves his hand a bit, vaguely. Louis decided that he probably did _not_ mean strangers or friend of a friend, but he’s here and he hasn’t got much of a choice, so he nods like he understands. 

“Where’s home?” Harry asks, changing the subject. 

“Everywhere.” Louis shrugs. “Nowhere.” Harry narrows his eyes at him, unsatisfied. Louis knows he didn’t answer his question. “I’m from Doncaster, though,” he says, ducking his head down a bit to avoid any lingering gaze. 

Harry hums, nodding. “Not interested in heading back there?” he asks. 

The question makes Louis squirm in his seat, but Harry’s tone is nothing but lighthearted. 

“Spending an indefinite amount of time working from my mum’s couch didn’t sound very appealing, no,” Louis says, chuckling and shaking his head. “‘Ve got six siblings, too, so I’d never get a moment of peace.” 

Harry’s eyes go a bit wide at that, despite a horrible attempt to hide his surprise. He coughs to cover it up. Louis lets out a bark of laughter. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes. Louis can see the tip of his ear turning red, even in the dark of the car. “That’s just… wow. That’s a lot.” 

“You’re telling me, mate. I take it you don’t have quite as many?” 

“Just one,” Harry replies. “Gemma.” Louis hums. 

“How do you know Zayn?” Louis asks. 

Harry coughs. “Uni. We dropped out together.” 

“Uni?” Louis wrinkles his brow. “Zayn was my best friend in uni. And weren’t you a few years below us?” 

“Mhm. I dropped out after my first term.” 

“Huh,” Louis mutters, thoughtfully and mostly to himself. “He says you’ve a bakery?” 

Harry nods. “Bought it a few months back, then the lady who owned the building agreed to sell me the whole place, so my flat’s just above it.”  
Briefly, Louis wonders how a twenty-two year old gets the money to buy a building in London. But selfishly, all he can hope is that it means his room will be nice. Maybe there will be a bathtub, too. 

“What’s your best pastry?” Louis asks. 

Harry thinks for a moment. “Scones, maybe. I’ve been working on my cupcakes recently. Might have to make you test them.” 

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Louis says. He realizes he’s smiling, lips pressed tight and quirked upwards. It’s nice. Harry’s nice. 

“No? They could be the worst. You haven’t even seen them.” He adjusts in his seat a bit as he turns. “I’ll make you one tomorrow.” 

“I’ll hold you to it.” 

___

He’s shivering outside of the dark bakery, waiting for Harry to come back from parking his car. It’s called Marcy’s, and while Louis didn’t really know what to expect, it wasn’t a twenty two year old man running a bakery named after an old lady. 

It fits in well with the other shops on the street, though. There’s a coffee shop and a bookstore and a few others that Louis can’t quite guess. They’re all dark and the street is mostly empty now, aside from cars passing through, but he assumes it’s much busier in the daytime. It seems far enough away from the busy city streets to be peaceful but not secluded. 

It reminds him of how much of London he missed during his internship, when the world felt like it existed within the ten blocks between work and his flat. When he’d started with Away right out of uni, all he needed was shitty takeaway, happy hours, football, and Zayn and Liam. 

Harry comes around a corner and Louis startles. He insisted on getting Louis’ bags for him, so he’s got his large duffle thrown over his shoulder and his backpack in his hand. His beanie is on again and the shadows are catching him in a way that makes him look like a model, all chiseled cheekbones and pouty lips. 

Louis wonders for a second why he isn’t. He looks like _that_ and he runs a bakery. 

He can’t dwell on it, because Harry unlocks the door and Louis allows himself to be wrapped up in the warmth and smell of the bakery. 

“Here’s a copy of the key.” Harry hands him the key and points up the stairs at the end of the hallway. “It’s just up those. Sometimes the handle gets stuck, the door is ancient, but just push. I’ve got a few things to do in the bakery, unfortunately. I’ll be up as soon as I can, but you don’t have to wait up.” 

“Thanks mate,” Louis says, taking the key and starting up the stairs. “Don’t worry about me.” 

He hears the door to the bakery shut behind him. He sort of wishes Harry had waited, because he was right, the handle is stuck. It takes him about three tries before it even returns to the regular position, still not letting him unlock it. 

He groans before trudging down the stairs, cheeks undoubtedly redder than they were from the cold. 

Harry’s in the kitchen, just pulling an apron over his head. His hair is tied back in a bun now. He notices Louis immediately. Louis feels a bit panicked, knows how shaky his voice is going to be. 

“Um, the door…” Louis holds up the key, defeated. 

“Right, sorry, should’ve just shown you.” He takes Louis key--he lets him pass before letting his head fall back, closing his eyes and hoping that it wasn’t as sweaty as his hands were. He follows Harry up the stairs and tries to give him space on the tiny platform. “The cold makes it worse, it’s not your fault.” 

It opens on the first try. 

“Alright, well.” Harry gestures for him to go ahead, so he grabs his bags and brushes past. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.” 

Louis hears the door click behind him and takes a deep breath, searching for the light switch. 

Harry’s apartment isn’t huge, he finds, but it’s decorated to encapsulate Harry perfectly. He’s got a dark green couch that Louis is glad he isn’t sleeping on because it looks modern and uncomfortable. He’s got an equally uncomfortable looking vintage orange chair. There’s a wall of exposed brick that a television sits in front of on a mid-century cabinet and on the opposite side, past the opening to the hallway, there’s a rack of plants. Next to it, there’s a bookcase, adorned with knick knacks and pictures on top. 

The kitchen begins with a breakfast bar--or an island, Louis isn’t very schooled in kitchens--with a hanging rack of pots and pans and cabinets of dark wood. It would be a dream kitchen to someone who cared about kitchens, much like Louis would assume Harry does. 

He finds his room based on the fact that it’s the only open door and there’s a half assembled frame and a tiny cabinet and not room for much else. The mattress is diagonal against the wall and it isn’t above Louis to flop it onto the floor and call it a night, but his stomach grumbles and he knows it would take too much maneuvering to get the frame out of the way. So he makes his way to the kitchen and then back to his room, finds some tools, and gets to work. 

___

It takes a few weeks to settle completely. 

The first week is spent unpacking, organizing, and reorganizing as much as it’s possible in the tiny room. When it proves that there is no other way to rearrange his belongings, Louis starts writing and editing articles to prepare for the new assignments he’ll be given in the next week. 

He reads when he’s not doing that. It started the very first day, when Harry had finished at the bakery and found Louis skimming his bookshelf. It wasn’t very large, but the three shelves were packed tightly. A lot of the books were very clearly worn and some had tabs marking several pages. Louis thought it was all a bit dense and dry for his taste, so he was surprised when Harry had plucked a biography off of the shelf and Louis had ended up really enjoying it. 

“A good place to start,” is how Harry described it. 

In the coming weeks, Louis found himself making his way through Harry’s bookcase. Whenever Louis would replace a book, Harry recommended another. It was a lot of nonfiction, heavily focused on memoirs or biographies. It wouldn’t have been Louis’ first choice, or even second or third probably, but he liked knowing that Harry had read them and he gave extra attention to the pages that had been marked and sentences that had been underlined. 

They fell into a routine of reading together. Louis spent a lot of time on the couch while Harry was working, because the area was brighter and bigger and Louis really liked the space. He’d do his call-in meetings in the mornings and write and edit until Harry got back a few hours into the afternoon. Harry always brought a few sweets and they usually ended up eating them on opposite ends of the couch. 

He really liked Harry’s company. He couldn’t put his finger on it—what part of Harry drew him in rather than pushed him away. Typically he would take complete advantage of having his own space, tucking away in his bedroom and enjoying every moment of privacy he could, but his time with Harry had quickly become the best part of his day. 

They didn’t fall into each other immediately, but the process was quiet and unnoticed. Louis would look up from his book and find Harry’s gaze already fixed on him and they would exchange matching grins and goofy giggles for unsaid reasons. He’d nudge Harry with his cold toes from time to time, earning him a slap on the shin or access to tuck them underneath Harry’s thigh if he was lucky. Harry always asked Louis about books when he finished them, even though he’d already read them. Louis would follow Harry to the kitchen while he cooked, just to keep him company. Harry would make him sample the food as he cooked and Louis would sneak control over the bluetooth speaker. Saturday nights became wine nights because the bakery didn’t accept orders on Sundays. They’d started chatting with each other’s families when they called. They both knew how the other took their tea. They never struggled to fill the silence, but if it fell, it was always comfortable. 

Sometimes Harry ended up in Louis’ lap. Not at first and it wasn’t full on, typically it was only his head resting on Louis’ leg. Louis didn’t really know how it ever happened, just that eventually he expected to look down and see Harry there, hair splayed over his thigh. 

It wasn’t that Louis was touch starved, it’s just. No, it’s exactly that. He’d conditioned himself to restrain from affection because of the tons of different customs he’d come by and the countless strangers he’d met. He’d hugged Niall twice, which he remembered because it was the first person that he’d hugged since he’d spent the past holidays with his family. 

Now, he expected Harry to be touching him in some way at any given time. It was nice. He really missed it. 

It was funny, because Harry would put on a show or movie that he wanted Louis to watch--Louis missed a good bit of media during his travels--and then he’d shoot him glances every few minutes to assure that Louis was still watching. And then he’d end up with his head on his lap, still doing the same. 

One night, Louis braided his hair. He hadn’t really noticed he was even playing with it until he started braiding it. Somehow it became a thing. 

“Braid?” Harry would ask on some nights, always in a tired voice, looking up at him through half-closed eyes. Louis was usually half asleep himself, head lulled uncomfortably against the back of the couch, but some part of him couldn’t say no. Some nights he started before Harry even mentioned it, something in it was as calming for him as it was for Harry. 

They’d also adopted a dinner routine. After a few weeks of Harry cooking dinner and Louis having to beg for little jobs, he’d put his foot down. 

“Harold--” He started. 

“Not my name,” Harry interjected, trying to get past Louis after he’d been told he was not to enter until Louis finished dinner. 

“Harold,” Louis said, firmer this time. “Get out. Or sit, if you must stay.” Harry sat and Louis gave in, because he was looking at him with eyes that took up his entire face and Louis could use a nice view--not that Harry’s flat was lacking. “Tell me about your day, then.” 

Harry did, and he didn’t argue the next day when Louis insisted on trying a recipe he’d found online. He’d put on music and sat down and starting rambling about an older customer who was so happy when he surprised her with a cake on her doorstep for her birthday, and fuck, Louis was so fucked. 

___

Saturday nights had a routine of their own. Since the bakery was closed on Sundays because Harry was the only one currently working, they’d buy a few bottles of cheap wine when they did their shopping earlier in the week and then they’d make dinner together. 

Tonight it was chicken and vegetables and they’d taken another bottle of wine each onto the balcony after the kitchen was cleaned. It wasn’t big enough for furniture, so they’d sat on the ground, wrapped tightly in hooded fleeces and blankets. The chill barely made it through the layers and the wine took care of the rest. 

It wasn’t quite a Saturday night tradition yet, mostly because it had only been warm enough and not raining for two weeks, but Louis thought this was something he could look forward to for a while to come. 

He lit a cigarette and nodded upwards. “The stars.” They were beautiful, rare for the city. Harry hummed and tilted his head back against the brick, eyes heavy but focused. 

“Ursa Major,” Harry pointed out. Louis followed his finger to what was in fact Ursa Minor. Louis tried to suppress a grin as he held his cigarette between his lips and adjusted Harry’s hand to where it was actually located. 

“Oh,” Harry said softly, dropping his hand and letting his hair fall in front of his face a bit. 

“Had to navigate with the stars sometimes,” Louis says quickly.

“Really?” Harry asks, looking at him like he might be in awe. 

“No.” Louis lets out a bark of laughter as he shakes his head. Harry’s still looking at him, but his expression is soft and he’s got an amused smile playing on his lips. He brings his bottle to meet it. 

“Tosser,” he mutters between sips, bringing his hand to poke Louis’ cheek, which is immediately slapped away. “It’s cold and I want to play a game,” Harry announces. 

“A game?” Louis looks at him, fixing his gaze on the sure look Harry’s wearing. “Do you have games?” 

Harry nods. “Mario Kart.” 

“I’m shit at Mario Kart,” Louis sighs, but he’s already getting up because he really can’t imagine telling Harry no on a regular basis, let alone this drunk, overly animated version of him. 

“Loser takes a shot,” Harry chimes in after clambering inside and to the cart where he keeps his liquor. He’s got expensive stuff, but he goes for a cheap bottle of vodka and Louis needs to steady himself for a minute. 

It turns out that Harry’s shit at Mario Kart, too. Actually, if Harry’s shit then Louis is quite good. Or, maybe Louis plays better drunk. Either way, Harry’s been off the deep end for a good hour. In that time, he’d perfectly rolled a joint which they shared on the balcony and he had Louis make him a grilled cheese. He wanted to do it on his own, but he couldn’t remember where they kept the cheese. 

“Mate,” Harry gasps after Louis loses count of the shots he’s taken, looking at Louis in a state of comical shock. “It’s morning. It’s two.” Like two in the morning was something insane. 

“I’m definitely not as drunk as you are,” Louis mutters into the last bits of their final bottle. Harry giggles. 

“No, I think you are,” Harry sing-songs. “Remember what you said about my nose.” 

Unfortunately, Louis does. He was more done-in an hour ago than he is now. He’d told Harry that despite how much he complains about his nose--which isn’t even that often, Louis knows now--it’s a good nose. He’d even grabbed Harry’s face and held it in his hands to get his point across. His cheeks heat up remembering it. 

“How do _you_ remember that?” Louis asks. If he tried to sound annoyed or shocked, it didn’t work. There wasn’t a trace of blame in his voice. 

“Well, you see….” 

Louis looks over, but Harry is just slumped against the couch, eyes barely alert. Louis takes a deep breath before he gets up and hoists the rest of Harry’s stupid long legs onto the couch and pushes him over so that he’s laying down. He doesn’t bother cleaning up and he’s pretty sure he lands face down on his bed, but he leaves that as a problem for the morning. 

___ 

“Harry.” Louis stands in the doorway to the living room and waits as Harry grumbles and cracks one eye open in his direction. Harry never handled his hangover as well as Louis did. Sundays were also the only day he got to sleep in, so Louis didn’t really blame him for prolonging that. But it was noon and Louis was starving. “We don’t have any food.” 

At that, Harry groaned and brought his arm to cover his face, hiding in the crook of his elbow. Louis only felt bad for a second before remembering that Harry was the one who insisted on the vodka shots. 

“I’ll pay for takeaway tonight if you go,” Louis offered, smug when the proposition got Harry to peek from under his elbow, both eyes now open. 

“No,” Harry whispers, barely more than mouthing the word. He’s moving, though, scraping himself off of the couch and steadying himself for at least an entire minute while Louis watches with a faint smirk. It wouldn’t be funny if he was feeling more hungover than he is. 

It’s not funny for long, though, because Harry brushes right past him and to the toilet. He’s heaving over the bowl and before Louis even thinks about it, he’s next to him, tying his hair up with an elastic that was left on the sink. He keeps a hand on Harry’s back, rubbing circles over the slightly sweaty material of his shirt and feeling the way his muscles tighten and pull. 

Harry leans back eventually, letting his back fall against the cold side of the bathtub. Louis wets a cloth in cold water and Harry accepts it, pressing it against his forehead. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Harry says. His voice is weak and his cheeks are flushed compared to the paleness of the rest of him. 

Louis knows by now that he means thank you. 

“I know,” Louis says instead of _you’re welcome._ He knows Harry gets the message. “I’ll go to the store.” 

“No,” Harry protests, as if he could even manage the walk to his bedroom in this state. He tilts his head up but immediately leans it against the wall instead. 

“Where’s the list?” Louis asks instead of arguing. He takes a quick look in the mirror and ducks across the hall to swap his t-shirt for something a bit warmer. It’s been a mild April so far but not enough to chase the perpetual chill from the air. 

“Counter,” is the only reply Harry offers. 

“Are you alright there?” Louis nods towards Harry, still slumped half against the tub and half against the wall. He waits a moment until he hears steady breaths falling from Harry’s slightly parted lips before he slips on a jacket and mask and collects the list off the counter. 

The walk is quiet. So quiet that Louis forgoes putting in headphones and enjoys the fifteen minutes to himself. 

He doesn’t think anything is wrong until he’s a block away from the shop and the doors have not opened once. He checks the time twice, just to be sure. Sure, usually they make it a bit earlier, but there’s no reason for a grocery store to be closed in the middle of the day. 

When he gets close enough and the automatic doors still don’t open, he frowns. He scans the papers taped to the front—usually local advertisements and store announcements—until he finds one that says, in big letters: _Easter Hours._

Immediately he’s pulling his phone from his pocket, scrolling past the calendar entirely to dial Harry. It takes a few rings but the line clicks and Louis can hear muffled static followed by a soft groan. 

“Is it Easter?” Louis doesn’t bother to move, staring comically at the ‘Easter - Closed’ written on the paper. 

“ _Is_ it Easter?” Harry repeats back, clearer than how he picked up. A small gasp and then, “It _is_ Easter. I had an order of bunny cookies yesterday.” 

“Great. Well I’m here now, so,” Louis mumbles, feigning annoyance that he can’t quite seem to actually muster. Although, as his stomach growls again, he may be able to reconsider. 

“Are they open?” Harry asks. 

“Obviously not.” 

“Alright,” Harry says in playful defense, immediately followed by a chuckle. “Are you just standing at the door?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re really no help.” Louis finally turns away, aimlessly wandering in the direction of the flat. 

They chat while Harry directs him to a corner store that he insists never closes. Even though they’ve been together all weekend and Harry sounds a few breaths away from death, neither of them hang up. 

There’s something in Louis that finds comfort in it. He doesn’t let his mind linger on what that means, nor does he let himself wonder why he doesn’t hang up once Harry’s replies and hums turned into steady deep breaths. Even if he breaks a sweat carrying an arm full of miscellaneous items from the corner story, he keeps the phone pressed to his ear until he’s climbing the steps of the flat. 

___

“This isn’t bad,” Harry says later, scooping another mouthful of mac and cheese up with his fork. None of the takeaway within walking distance was open, so this had to do. 

Harry’s showered and mostly recovered from his hangover, cheeks still dusted lightly with color from the fuss Louis made when he emerged clean and dressed. He’d put on a record and recounted the stories that he remembered from their evening while Louis had cooked. 

“Did you doubt me?” Louis asks, although he knows the answer. 

“Yes,” Harry responds without hesitation. Louis rolls his eyes and slides onto the stool at the head of the breakfast bar. 

“I’ll have you know I was a regular chef for my siblings,” Louis says matter-of-factly. 

“Is that so?” Louis nods proudly. “And none of them got food poisoning?” 

Louis’ eyes go wide, cheeks heating up immediately. “Oh my god. It was _once_ ,” he insists. Harry looks up from his food, entirely too amused. 

“I was kidding, but—“ Before he gets the chance, Louis holds up his fork to cut him off. 

“Eat your mac and cheese.” 

“It’s no Easter dinner, but it’ll do,” Harry teases, rolling his eyes and shoveling another forkful of mac and cheese into his mouth. 

___

Harry was upset. 

Of course, Harry would never tell Louis that—which drove him absolutely fucking insane—but Louis knew. 

If it wasn’t the fact that Harry was two hours late coming up from the bakery, or that he’d come up without a single leftover treat, the deafening silence that echoed through the flat gave it away. 

On a normal afternoon they would kick back with a book and lounge around until dinner, something that Louis had basically taken over these days. There was always music on when he cooked, sometimes even when he wasn’t. Harry would lean against the breakfast bar or sit on a stool with his elbows on the counter and recite the details of his day. Every day. Louis had come to know Harry’s customers, his favorite pastries to make, and bits of conversations he’d gotten to have in passing. 

One of the things that stood out was how opposite he and Harry were. How Harry was reserved, timid and quiet at times but how invigorating it was for him to be in the company of others. He flourished under attention, could entertain a crowd or just one person with the same amount of ease. Louis had seen how Harry had interacted with his family on phone calls or the time he’d popped up for extra flour and Louis was finishing a project on a work call and his coworkers had insisted on chatting with him. He’d come to see it in their friendship, how Louis’ undivided attention was so valuable to Harry. 

Every day, he’d come from the bakery with a hundred new stories. Louis wondered how he’d come up with so many stories about filling ten or so orders a day, all by himself, but something always held his interest. 

Harry valued his time with others the way Louis valued his time alone. 

So when Harry had changed into his joggers without more than a greeting to Louis, slumping on the couch and scrolling through his phone rather than throwing himself over the counter and complaining, Louis knew it must be bad. 

Harry’s had bad days since Louis moved in. Those days still found him rambling in the kitchen, complaining about a customer forgetting their order or burning a batch of cupcakes. Louis would crack extra jokes and queue up music that Harry liked and the frustration would wear off. 

The silence in the flat had nearly drowned out the quiet music coming from the kitchen speaker. It left Louis moving around as quietly as possible, carefully avoiding clanging pots and pans. 

Louis wasn’t a chef. He was hardly a half decent cook. He could follow a recipe, though, and Harry had a collection of fancy kitchen tools and every spice they ever called for. It felt like the least he could do for Harry. Also, partially, he enjoyed watching Harry try his dishes. It felt intimate in an unnamed way, always anticipating Harry’s reaction. Louis felt comfort in taking care of his loved ones. 

By the time Louis plates the dish—which is an entirely too fancy way of putting it, it’s just pasta and pesto sauce—there’s a familiar steady breathing coming from the couch. There’s a heavy feeling, low and hollow in Louis' stomach as he peaked over the couch and saw Harry’s brow still tightly wound in sleep. His arms crossed over his chest, phone laying face down on his stomach. He was closed off in every sense, even in the vulnerability of sleep. 

Louis slips the plates in the oven to keep them warm and makes his way over to his end of the couch. He shakes Harry awake by the ankle, touching light against the grey blanket he’s half covered by. Harry’s features soften first, not waking up but not looking nearly as moody. 

“H.” Harry’s eyes open only halfway, dark and uninterested in anything more than that. “Dinner’s ready.” 

Harry closes his eyes again. “‘M not hungry.” He doesn’t sound mean or dismissive, but his voice is thick with sleep. He tries to roll to face the back of the couch but it really isn’t that kind of couch. They lounge around on it mostly for location and convenience, not because it’s comfortable. It’s evident that Harry’s plan won’t work when he throws himself back into his previous position and takes a deep breath. 

“What’s wrong, then?” Louis finally asks, breaking the silence that had settled again. He thinks for a moment that was the wrong thing to say, because Harry’s features contort, nostrils flaring and bottom lip going between his teeth like he’s trying not to cry. There’s an envelope on the coffee table, messily torn open, that Louis doesn’t notice until he drags his gaze away from Harry. “Is it this?” Louis asks, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. 

Just like that, Harry’s up, snatching the envelope from Louis’ hands before he can read anything more than the address. He’s off the couch, too, leaving Louis with wide eyes and lips slightly parted, stilled in shock. 

“Fuck off,” Harry mumbles. He’s standing on the other side of the room, in front of the telly, carefully making sure the letter is intact. His shoulders slouch, head bowed, and he doesn’t bother concealing his worried look, visible from behind the hair that’s fallen in his face. 

“I’m sorry?” Louis asks, making sure he heard Harry correctly. He wasn’t typically quick to anger, but the way that Harry had shut him down so quickly left it rising in his throat. The way Harry shut everything down, the way he kept Louis constant company and operated in shared space and talked with him but refused to connect. 

“It’s really none of your business, Louis.” 

“You don’t think anything is any of my business, Harry,” Louis counters, all but shouting. He doesn’t mean to say it, but it’s true. He sees Harry’s jaw shift as he looks up, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head like he can’t control it. 

“Then maybe it isn’t. Did you fucking consider that?” Harry says, like it’s obvious. Louis feels a shiver run down his spine. He doesn’t know how it turned so hostile this quickly. 

Louis could handle an argument. Between all of his siblings and his mum, he’d become a pro at petty shouting matches. He wasn’t one to shy away from conflict, either. 

This wasn’t what that was. The words were caught in his throat and he didn’t trust himself to start speaking. His hands, too. They were ice cold and shaking so ridiculously that he had to keep them in fists so Harry wouldn’t notice. There was emotion running thick through Louis’ veins, pouring into the room. 

Louis doesn’t have to worry about a response, because Harry makes the next move, tossing the envelope onto the coffee table. It sits between them like it should be on fire. 

“There, open it.” Louis doesn’t move. 

“I don’t care about the bloody letter,” Louis starts. 

“You’re so _fucking stubborn_ ,” Harry interrupts, finally raising his voice, bringing his hands to rub over his face exhasperatedly. 

_“I'm stubborn?”_ Louis chuckles coldly. “Look at you, H. You’re having a fucking meltdown because I asked you why you were upset.” 

“I am not—“ Harry starts defensively, only to stop abruptly and take a shaky breath. “You didn’t let me tell you,” Harry replies instead, voice smaller than before.

“Then tell me, Harry. Tell me what’s wrong.” He leans back against the couch and looks expectantly at Harry, who’s trying his best to keep his eyes fixed on Louis. He only tears them away after a few beats of silence, the quiet of the apartment feeling louder than their shouting. “See,” Louis gestures towards him, “you weren’t going to tell me.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Harry says, defeated. 

“Why don’t you tell me things? Why does everything have to be a bloody secret? Why can’t I ask you why you’re upset and you talk to me like a normal fucking person?” 

For a second, while the room buzzes with tension and the sharp rise and fall of Louis’ chest, he thinks he might be out of his mind. He feels like he’s lost his footing. He’s shouting demands at someone who was a perfect stranger three months ago, someone kind enough to take in a roommate with hardly forty-eight hours notice. It’s uncontrollable, what he feels, so big and all-consuming that he can’t grasp it. Every bitter word feels like a punch in the gut. 

“What do you want me to tell you, Lou?” Harry repeats, loud and forceful, like he can’t keep it in any longer. “That I lost my job because I’m gay and it still kinda fucks me up sometimes?” 

The words hang in the air, stiff between them. Harry’s crying, Louis notices, cheeks damp under the overhead lights. His chest aches with guilt. He’s standing before he thinks better of it, moving across the living room and reaching out towards Harry, who immediately puts a hand up to stop him. 

_“No,”_ he scolds firmly. Louis drops his hands to his sides again, feeling his body brimming with the need to reach out. Harry looks up at him and up close Louis can see that his eyes are red and his bottom lip trembles. “Everyone worries about me. Everyone feels bad for me and checks on me and treats me like the world has done me some great disservice. I just wanted someone to treat me like I was fucking normal.” 

As if the proximity is suddenly too much, Harry circles back to the couch, collapsing onto it with a small “fuck.” He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and tilts his head back. Louis watches as his body shakes once, twice with quiet sobs. Softly, he crosses back to his spot on the couch and sits down to face Harry, folding his legs on the couch and leaving an entire cushion between them. 

“I’m sorry, H,” Louis says, failing to come up with anything else. “I didn’t know.” He couldn’t have known and they both know that, but he thinks it’s better left unsaid. 

“Don’t,” Harry interjects. 

“I know.” Louis doesn’t know if he’s supposed to wait for Harry to speak again or let it go for the night entirely, but he doesn’t do either. “What about the bakery?” 

Harry turns his head, a confused look playing on his face, internal turmoil obvious. Maybe the conversation was supposed to be over or maybe Louis’ question was too vague. He doesn’t elaborate but eventually Harry speaks. 

“I’m a model,” is all he offers, eyes trained on the ceiling, expression and tone unreadable. Louis thinks he’s misheard for a moment, because things make considerably less sense than they did two minutes ago, but Harry continues. “I signed with an agency when I was sixteen and moved to London and dropped out of uni for more opportunities. ‘S how I met Zayn. We walked my first fashion week together.” 

It’s new, Louis feels his brain trying to make sense of it, but he can’t find it in him to be surprised. Harry’s mesmerizing, he’s breathtaking. Objectively so. And it makes sense for him to know Zayn this way. 

“I was seeing another model signed to my agency and I told her I didn’t think I only liked girls. She didn’t take it well.” Harry laughs wetly. It’s sharp and bitter and causes Louis to flinch at the suddenness. “To be fair, it turns out I don’t like them at all.” He sits up, crossing his legs to mirror Louis on the opposite side of the couch. “The agency let me go less than a month after that for some bullshit reason, but everyone in the industry knew.” 

“Can’t you, like, sue or something?” Louis asks. 

Harry shrugs. “I don’t want anything from them. I got to come out, they paid out the rest of my contract and I bought the bakery from Marcie. Everyone thinks I’m some wounded puppy because I haven’t signed anywhere else yet. I’m just… getting my footing again, I guess.” 

“Do you want to sign somewhere else?” 

“No,” Harry says immediately, too quick and a little forceful. “I mean, there are parts of it I miss. I loved it but I love the bakery, too. Everything is so different now. I feel like I belong to myself.” 

Louis frowns at the last bit, though Harry says it so nonchalantly. 

“Another agency contacted me about signing with them,” Harry nods towards the letter, sitting innocently back on the coffee table. “I worked with a director of theirs in New York on a feature about queer models for Out Magazine. It’s how I officially came out. Said they’d even let me cut my hair,” Harry joked, catching Louis off guard again. 

“They didn’t let you cut your hair?” Louis asks, tilting his head. 

“When someone’s trying to sell your image they tend to want creative liberties.” Harry seemed unbothered by it. “Anyway, I just wasn’t ready for that again.” 

“I’m not sorry I asked.” Harry quirks an eyebrow at him, confused. A small smile plays on his lips. Louis shrugs. “Felt like I was supposed to apologize or something. Just wanted to inform you that I wouldn’t be.” 

Harry laughs at that, a real one, bright and familiar to Louls. A familiarity he didn’t realize he was aching for. “I meant it when I said you were really fucking stubborn.” He closes the gap, though, leaning lamely against Louis frame. Louis instinctively brings a hand to his hair, running his fingers through it. He’s sure it calms him more than Harry. 

“I am stubborn, and that means I’m going to be extra annoying when you don’t tell me things from now on.” Harry elbows him weakly from his compromised position. 

___

Louis is enjoying the warmth of the early June afternoon, curled up on the couch, letting the sunlight cast over his legs. It’s the feeling that only June can bring, the slow beginning of summer, while it still holds the excitement of all the possibilities. The window is open and the chatter from the street carries up and that’s exciting, too, because the quiet has felt almost suffocating recently. 

Not entirely, though, because Louis thinks that he could probably go without seeing anyone ever again if it meant he got to be around Harry this much. That thought brings on a new train of thought which quickly spirals into worrying about what he’ll do when he has to leave. Eventually either Harry will get tired of his impromptu roommate or Louis will run out excuses to stay. Never in his life has he wanted to be around someone like this. Never in his life has he wanted to stay in one place, usually it’s quite the opposite. 

Now, the thought of waking up without the smell of fresh coffee and baked bread, without slipping out onto the tiny balcony for a smoke, without showering surrounded by the smell of Harry’s shampoo and bodywash makes him a little sick. 

He jumps a bit when he hears the door open. He tries to quell the lump in his throat and the flutter in his chest, but it’s nearly useless at this point. He turns and Harry’s there, holding at least four reusable bags that are nearly overflowing. 

“Hey,” Harry greets, grinning at Louis like he’s done something other than sat on the couch. Like he’s done something to deserve to see those dimples. 

“Hi,” is all Louis can say for a moment, breath caught in his throat. “Do you need any help?” He’s off the couch before Harry answers, crossing to the island where the bags are setting. 

It’s been a week since they fought. It’s been a bit tentative and maybe a little quieter than usual, but things are mostly back to normal. 

“Not with this, no,” Harry pauses, biting at his lip and looking down at his hands. He looks nervous, like he may not say anything else, and Louis doesn’t want to hover. He’s about to turn and go back to the couch when Harry starts again. “I bought, um,” Harry holds up a pair of hair clippers, “I bought these.” 

“Okay?” Louis says hesitantly, unsure if he should be following what Harry’s saying. His hair is getting long, yeah, but he never thought of Harry to be the type to drop hints about cutting it, especially since he’s got a good bit of length on Louis still, anyway. Those clippers wouldn’t even work on him. 

“I want to cut my hair,” Harry says firmly. It almost startles Louis in the way he says it, but he looks so sure of himself that for a second all Louis can register is how proud he is. “Will you help me?” His voice is softer again, like he thinks Louis might say no, as if Louis is capable of something like that. 

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says, keeping his voice soft, too. He knows what a big deal this is for Harry, and he doesn't scare him by being too excited about it. He runs his fingers across the smooth, cold countertop, trying to distract himself from the overwhelm of emotion he’s feeling. 

“I just don’t want to find a shop that’s open and have to go out, but if you don’t want to, I get it. I don’t want to pressure you, but you said about doing your sisters’ hair and-” Harry begins, listing reasons, as if Louis needs reasons to say yes to him. Louis reaches across the island, leaning up on his tiptoes and feeling the cold on his stomach where his shirt hikes up, and grabs one of Harry’s rapidly gesturing hands to stop him. 

“H, I’d be happy to help you, yeah? Thank you for asking me.” Louis smiles softly and squeezes Harry’s hand a bit before letting go. Harry stops, lets his hands fall, and barely looks up, smiling down at the half empty bags. 

“Yeah,” He says, barely a whisper. 

“So,” Louis says, because he can’t take this in-between intimacy anymore or he’s going to reach over and kiss Harry and that’s probably an overreaction for the exchange at hand. “When are we doing this?” 

That snaps them both out of the moment. The world goes from just the two of them back to the two of them in Harry’s tiny flat, with voices outside and cars in the distance and the sickly sweet smell coming off of Harry because he hasn’t showered yet.

___

“You ready?” 

“Yeah, let me grab scissors,” Harry says, wiping his hands with the dish towel and grabbing a pair of scissors from the drawer next to the sink that he calls his junk drawer but is really just extra pens, a pair of scissors, and important receipts. It’s even organized. 

“Just regular scissors?” Louis asks, his lips quirking a bit. Harry Styles, always prepared, always neat and perfect, model Harry Styles, cutting his hair with regular scissors. 

“It’s, uh,” Harry gestures around for a moment, feigning annoyance, “not exactly ideal at the moment.” 

“Of course, my mistake.” Louis smiles and takes the scissors when Harry hands them over and follows him into the bathroom. It’s decent sized for a technically-one-bedroom flat, but it feels cramped at the moment. Harry sits on the closed toilet and Louis tries to find an angle that is comfortable and practical. It’s hard. 

“You have cut hair before, right?” Louis doesn’t need to see Harry’s face to know he’s chewing his lip. The nervous anticipation in the room has been created by the both of them, each for different reasons. Louis can tell Harry’s nervous, because this is a big change, but it’s clear that it also feels like a fresh start for him. For Louis, he just really, really does not want to fuck this up. And, of course, he knows that it’s a big deal for Harry and he’s happy to be with him for it. 

“Not exactly,” Louis replies, in a tone a bit higher than normal, as if it lessens the blow. 

Harry turns back to look at him, eyes wide and panicked.

Louis holds up a finger before Harry can say anything. “I want to remind you that I never said that I knew how, only that I would, and you don’t have a ton of options right now. But, I mean, how hard can it be?” 

“Very hard, Louis,” Harry says, eyes still comically wide. Louis can’t help the giggle that comes out. “People go to school for this.” 

“And people do it at home,” Louis reminds him, cupping Harry’s chin in his hand for a moment. “And we aren’t getting out of here soon. If it’s bad I’ll get you a little chef’s hat.” Harry has a hard time keeping a straight face, lips pursing tightly as Louis lets out a loud cackle. 

“Okay.” Harry turns back around, letting out a deep breath. “Okay, I need a minute.” Harry stands, crowding Louis even further in the tight bathroom. Louis shuffles out of the way the best that he can without making it seem like he doesn’t want to touch Harry. Just the opposite, however. One touch wouldn’t be enough. A bit of closeness now brings to light the absence of closeness the rest of the time. 

The intimacy of the moment is suffocating. Louis watches Harry look at his reflection in the mirror. He’s quiet, taking him in. It’s never enough, he thinks. Every glimpse at Harry in a moment like this—intimate and natural—ends the moment it begins. He could spend hours memorizing Harry’s eyes, his sharp jaw and cheeks, his pink lips. He hates every thought that leaves him hopeful that he’ll have a chance to one day. 

Soon enough, the vulnerable look shifts and he clears his throat and maneuvers out of the way so Louis can step back inside the bathroom. 

Louis catches his arm before he sits down, gently gripping his biceps and avoiding how the touch feels too hot for his fingers. His eyes lock with Harry’s and his gaze is heavy. “It’s going to be okay, H.” 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out, anxious and unconvinced. “Let’s just get on with it.” 

So they do. Louis steadies his shaky hands and takes a few deep breaths that he doesn’t let Harry hear. He’s watched enough tutorials since Harry brought home the clippers that he’s rather confident in himself, even if this is entirely new to him. 

And all of his instructions had included proper scissors. 

The weight of the moment was more intense than the pressure of the haircut. The intimacy of it all. The trust. It was making the ache in Louis’ chest very hard to ignore. 

This was about Harry, he reminded himself. Louis was helping him, he was more than happy to be included in this and that Harry trusted him, but this was Harry’s moment. 

Harry was quiet as Louis clipped the biggest sections with the scissors. He ran a few stray pieces that had fallen over his shoulders between his fingers. The nervous anticipation felt more like tension now, only broken by the noise of the clippers starting up. 

Louis pressed his palm flat against Harry’s back, gently straightening his posture. The touch is comforting in ways that it shouldn’t be. It’s different from adjusting Harry’s head or holding out strands of his hair. As Louis starts with the clippers, he keeps a hand on Harry’s neck. He tells himself it’s to keep him still and not that he was restless for the contact. 

It’s not as hard as he anticipated. It’s quick and painless, really. He’s drawing his hands back and admiring his work before he knows it. 

“Okay,” Louis breathes out, “I need you to turn around and I think I have to wet your hair.” 

“You think?” Harry asks, attempting to sound lighthearted and joking, but his voice is shaky. He’s shifting around and Louis feels his stomach tighten as he gets the first glimpse of him. 

Even with the messy, half cut curls, Harry is perfect. Louis knows it without a doubt. He’s always been a bit sentimental, but he can’t help but want to remember this moment in its entirety. Harry, messy and vulnerable and trusting him, in his grey sweats and his infuriatingly cute lilac bakery t-shirt, with his hair no longer touching his shoulders or even his ears. 

It felt like the entire world was in that tiny bathroom on that warm evening. Or maybe it wasn’t, and Louis no longer minded if it went on without him, because he was here and Harry was here with him. 

When the silence had stretched too long, Louis picked up the tiny spray bottle. “Well, I’m going to wet your hair. Apparently it’s easier this way.” Louis shrugs. “Gonna have to close your eyes.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut and Louis covers them with his hand while he sprays the rest of his hair. 

Harry keeps his eyes shut as Louis finishes trimming the front pieces of hair. He steps back to admire his work before telling Harry he’s finished. He looks beautiful—different, a bit softer and maybe older—and Louis wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss his forehead. He’d been focusing so hard that the proximity had been on the back burner, but now he can feel the heat of Harry lingering on his skin. 

“All done,” Louis whispers. 

Harry opens his eyes, finally, and meets Louis’ immediately. “Alright.” He doesn’t move. Louis watches as he swallows and takes a shaky breath. “Thank you. Um, I’m gonna shower and stuff, and then…” he gestures vaguely. Louis nods. “Thank you,” he says again. 

“Of course, H,” Louis says, still hovering in the doorway. “It looks really good.” It’s an understatement. Louis could write poems and books, he could drop to his knees. Instead he pulls the door shut and slips into the darkness of his bedroom. 

____ 

Louis’ writing in a little journal that he keeps when Harry comes out of the shower. He lingers in his bedroom for a while before barely peeking through a cracked door. 

“Don’t make it a big deal, okay?” Harry clarifies. Louis smiles, mostly because Harry knew he would make a big deal of it. 

“Don’t make a big deal of what?” Louis asks nonchalantly after repositioning himself to what he hoped looked more casual. Like he was not waxing poetic in his journal like a love struck teenager two seconds ago. 

Harry emerges and god, he’s beautiful. It feels significant, like Louis needs a moment to take him in. It kind of always feels like this, he realizes. Anytime Harry’s there, Louis’ eyes are on him, taking in everything that they can. 

He’s changed from his bakery shirt into a plain white one with pale pink sweatpants and he’s got his glasses on. He looks older with short hair, softer too. Louis feels like he’s getting worse at not kissing him, because he can hardly restrain himself right now. 

“Okay, well you don’t have to not say anything,” Harry mumbles, cheeks and ears turning red under Louis’ gaze. 

“I did a good job,” Louis replies smugly, but he knows his features don’t match the lightness of his tone. It earns him a nudge from Harry anyway.

“What’s that smell?” Harry looks between Louis and the kitchen curiously. It’s Louis' turn for his cheeks to heat up. 

“I made biscuits,” he mutters, abandoning his journal and following Harry into the kitchen. 

“You made biscuits because I got a haircut?” Harry asks. He inspects them before picking one up and tasting it. 

“Well, I, um--” Louis stammers. Harry hums in approval, though, licking a few crumbs from his lips, and Louis is content enough to try one himself.  
Harry busies himself with making them tea, breaking off pieces of biscuits each time he walks past. By the time he sits down again, he’s had three. 

“I think I’m going to sign with that agency,” Harry says into his mug, not looking up. Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, unable to mask his surprise. 

“You want to?” Louis keeps his tone steady. He’s got no right to be protective of Harry, but his mind is reeling nonetheless. 

“I think so,” Harry finally meets his gaze. He looks sure, which Louis finds comfort in. “I want it to be on my own terms this time, you know? Market me for who I am at least.” Louis grimaces, which Harry must catch. “That sounds bad, but I miss it.” 

“H, you should do whatever makes you happy. But I’m not letting them fuck with you, and you can tell them I said that.” 

Louis sips his tea as Harry chuckles. 

____ 

It’s early when Louis wakes up the next day. It’s Sunday, so Harry’s likely sleeping for a few more hours. 

It’s rare for Louis to shower in the morning, but after all the biscuits last night they’d ended up watching a movie and falling asleep on the couch until the wee hours of the morning so he didn’t quite get to it. Louis could still feel the ache in his neck as he let the warm water run over him, a little longer than usual in hopes of loosening the tightness. 

He toweled his hair a final time before stepping into the hallway. He half expected for Harry to be kicked back with his glasses on and nose in a book if he wasn’t still asleep, so he isn't surprised to see him.

What he didn’t consider was that the book in question could be the journal that he was writing in this morning and had left on the couch when he’d gone to take a shower. It was stupid, really. Journals are supposed to be private things that no one else sees. 

He can’t muster an upset look when Harry looks up and his face is overcome with big, guilty eyes. 

“I--I didn’t mean--” Harry stammers, dropping the journal down onto the sofa and standing to move away from it, like distance was what was needed. He takes a breath that’s visibly shaky. 

“You didn’t?” Louis narrows his eyes at him, but there’s something light in his tone. He can’t help it. He’s read about Louis’ feelings and he doesn’t look mad or like he’s going to throw him out, at the very least. 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a huge invasion of privacy and I shouldn’t have done that. I just,” he stops and takes a ragged breath, voice softening. “The way you look at me is like, it’s so much. It’s like I did something to deserve it. But you weren’t saying anything and I didn’t want to be making it up.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. 

“You bake me pastries every day,” Louis says, stepping closer to Harry. “You let me read all of your favorite books. You eat my cooking like it’s anything but subpar.” A quiet laugh bubbles out of Harry and Louis follows it. They’re standing close enough that Louis can feel his breath and the high strung adrenaline that comes from being in close proximity to Harry. “You show me your favorite things and then stare at me the entire time to see if I like them, too.” 

Louis kisses him. It’s soft and only lasts a moment, but he realizes in between the warmth and the taste of Harry’s toothpaste that he isn’t finished. He brushes a curl from Harry’s forehead when he pulls back. 

“You deserve big things, H. You deserve to be treated properly. You deserve to be loved.” Louis falters. Love. It’s a big word and it slipped right out of Louis’ mouth and into the room around them without causing the roof to cave in. 

Harry’s searching his eyes when he looks up to meet his gaze again. Harry’s the one to pull him in this time, more frantic than the last. It’s touch and tongue and an overwhelm of senses. Harry’s cologne. Harry’s soft, worn t-shirt. Harry’s glasses that keep poking Louis. His lips are gentle and strong in the way that Harry is, and they pull him in that all too familiar way. Harry’s hands are firm on Louis’ cheeks, but his thumb rubs across his cheekbone. 

“Did you mean it?” Harry asks, breathless. Their foreheads are pressed together and neither one can control their smiles. 

“‘Course I meant it.” Louis pulls away so he can properly look at Harry. So Harry can see him. Harry doesn’t give him a chance to say it, though. 

“Me too,” He says, ducking back down for another kiss. 

___

A few weeks later, when Harry properly says it over their first real outing, a picnic in a secluded corner of the park, Louis looks at him and teasingly replies, “I already knew that.” Harry rolls his eyes and throws a napkin at him. 

___

Louis is in the kitchen, stirring milk and butter and cheese in one of Harry’s fancy pots. It’s warm, the windows are open and the summer sun spills through every crack in the foundation. Louis doesn’t think the room could get much brighter, but then he hears Harry unlocking the door, greeting him with fresh biscuits and a wide grin. 

“Hi, love,” Harry says, slipping the biscuits on the counter and wrapping his arms around Louis from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. He buries his head in Louis’ neck, pressing his lips to the skin there. He can feel Harry’s smile spreading into the kiss and all he can do is bite his lip to contain the overwhelm of comfort and excitement and love that he feels. 

“Hi, baby,” he whispers in return, voice wobbly. He presses a kiss to the crown of Harry’s head—the only part he can reach—and ducks down to pepper them on his temple and cheeks. Harry lifts his head a bit to meet Louis’ lips, smile never fading. Louis realizes he’s smiling too.

There’s a Talking Heads record spinning quietly in the background, one that Harry always plays. It’s come to be Louis’ favorite. 

_Home, is where I want to be_

_But I guess I'm already there_

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/milfphoebebridgers) :)


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